


Tyril and Seron Drabbles

by RittaPokie



Series: Tales From the Dragon Age [5]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-30
Updated: 2018-01-30
Packaged: 2019-03-11 07:08:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,337
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13519098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RittaPokie/pseuds/RittaPokie
Summary: If any of my spideypool readers end up here, just be glad that IBT isn't this slow of a burn. You think Wade and Peter are tiptoeing around each other? nah man, try 12 years of almost kisses. that's these noobs.





	1. Seron Doesn't Know How To Take Praise

Across the square beneath the shade of their tree, Tyril can see him. All flame-red hair fluttering in the breeze and sharp features cut into a scowl so intense he thinks the other elf might suddenly rip the alienage apart. "He's beautiful." Tyril whispers to his sister.

She raises her eyebrows. "He looks like he might kill us." She says. "And he comes with a human. Another, to cause more trouble today."

"I wish you'd have stayed inside, my heart. Vaughn hasn't a care for your age." Tyril frowns.

"He'd have a care for my weapons." She insists. "I have faced worse."

"I would not wish you to face more, be that as it may."

"Your pretty elf is coming over. He saw you staring."

 

"What are you looking at." The redhead says. It's not really a question, more of an accusation. There's a lilt and crack to his voice that makes Tyril's heart flutter. And an accent he can't place, has never heard before.

"You, obviously." Tyril answers honestly.

"I advise you to turn your gaze elsewhere before you lose your eyes." The elf growls.

"You're beautiful." Tyril hears his sister snicker from beside him before a pale fist catches him in the jaw. He spits the blood that gushes into his mouth onto the ground and gives the pretty elf a red stained grin that paints confusion on his face.

The other tattoo faced elf with him grabs his arm, muttering about flat ears, and pulls him away before he can swing again.  
They're not out of earshot before Aroes starts full on laughing. Tyril can't wipe the smile off his face, no matter how much it hurts. There's just ...something about that one.


	2. The Common Cold

“It’s _just_ the pollen. The forest.” the redhead swears, then sneezes. “I have never, _ever_ gotten ill, not even _once_. So, I can’t be ill.”

“ _The forest_?” Lyna laughs, spluttering the herbal tea she’d been drinking. After she recomposes herself, she shakes her head at him. “Seri, we _lived_ in a forest. We’re _Dalish_. You’d never been _outside_ a forest until a few months ago."

“It’s _this_ forest.” He insists. “What else could explain it? Fever, coughing, sn-sneezing.” The word is ill-timed and interrupted by the very thing it refers to.

“Maker’s mercy, Seron." Tyril sighs, "It’s a cold. _Everyone_ gets them.”

“ _Not me_.” He argues, “I don’t get them. I don’t even know what that is. I mean, I am a bit chilled if you must know, but that’s because of the fever.”

“Well,” Lyna says, “our resources are limited, so I’m not giving you any potions for a _cold_ unless you’re on the cusp of death, so you’ll just have to suffer through it for a week.”

“I told you _I’m not ill_.” Seron gripes when Tyril lays an extra blanket over him. “Take your sodding blanket back.” he shoves it off, but Tyril immediately puts it back. Seron shivers anyway. “Not ill.”

“You’re horrible, you know?” Tyril sits beside him and coaxes the elf’s head into his lap so that he can stroke his hair and press his other hand to his forehead. “And burning hot with fever.”

“No.”

“No what? No, you don’t have a fever?” Tyril asks, amused. “Because, I’m sorry friend, you’ve got one whether you believe it or not.”

“Just no.” Seron sighs.

Tyril can feel the other’s breathing slowing as he drifts off to sleep, hair damp with sweat and sticking to his forehead. His eyebrows are drawn together and he mumbles in his sleep, but then, he always does that. A while later, he shifts to lay beside the redhead, wrapping an arm around him.

Lyna remarks in the morning that “the last thing I need is _two_ sick companions”.


	3. In the Virgin's Bedroom

Seron’s red hair flutters down beside him as he flops onto his back. He can’t stop thinking about what happened earlier, with his best friend and honestly his only friend. It’s not the first time it’s happened, and probably won’t be the last. He can ignore all he wants that there’s something between the two of them, more than friendship, but there is something and there always has been.

“Why do you keep staring at me?” Seron grumbles, noting the other elf gazing dreamily at him. It’s not as if this is out of the ordinary, but still.

“I was thinking of asking for a kiss.” Tyril hums, propping his chin on his hand. His voice is always so cheerful.

It sounds sort of like a challenge, and Tyril knows how Seron responds to challenges. He knows. But he’s never been this…forward before. Seron’s brows knit together and he searches Tyril’s deep green eyes. He has to look away after a few seconds though, or risk getting lost in them. “And…if I were to say yes to such a question?” He asks; he’s never called Tyril’s bluff like this. They’ve been dancing around it for so, so long now. Maybe it’s time.

“Well.” Tyril grins, devious. His face flushes as Tyril brushes his fingers across the redhead’s jaw. Seron leans into the touch, lips parting slightly. “If you were to say yes, then, I suppose I would follow through…” He tilts Seron’s face so that their lips are almost, almost touching. He’s waiting for Seron to close the gap, to give one final permission.

\---

Why hadn’t he just. He rolls onto his stomach and groans pitifully into his pillow. If he were to go to Tyril now, in the dead of night, what would happen? The offer stands, he’s sure, but how far would it go? He knows Tyril is more…experienced, he isn’t shy about his conquests. Before, when they’d nearly kissed, Seron could feel the other elf’s breath on his neck, feel the heat of him just, just too far to touch. To taste.

They’ve been around each other for so long, he’s heard and seen the aftermath of more than one nightly tryst Tyril has been a part of. It’s not helping his thoughts, or rather, it is, but it’s only making them more sinful. The red and purple marks on their necks and shoulders and gods know where else. Would Tyril be that way with him? Would he tangle his fingers in Seron’s hair and pull back, expose his neck, and sink teeth into freckled skin? Or would he be more gentle, knowing that Seron is new to it all? Pressing gentle kisses down from Seron’s jaw to his collarbone, sliding his hands up the back of Seron’s tunic and pulling him closer.

Seron’s breath hitches and his hips rock against the bed. He wants, gods how he wants, for Tyril to sneak into his room some night-this night, and rake his fingernails down his freckled back. To leave bite marks on his hips and the insides of his thighs, to mark him, claim him.

He pushes himself up into a sitting position, if only to stop the maddening feeling from his squirming against the mattress. His erection is straining against his underclothes. His hand slips under the cloth and he strokes his fingers over the head of his cock. He has to bite against the palm of his free hand to keep from moaning loud enough for others to hear.

He slides his fingers through the clear fluid gathering at his tip and a shiver runs through his body. Tyril would be more likely to use his mouth than his hands. Hot and wet, tongue slick and teasing along the swollen head of his cock. He moans, frustrated, his heart pounding against his chest. He encircles his erection with his fingers, gripping tightly as he jerks himself off. He has no more time for teasing, and wouldn’t be able to stand it if he tried.

His breaths come erratic and whining, his hand moving faster. Tyril would take him fully into his mouth, tongue teasing his shaft, teeth grazing against the underside. He finishes, gasping and gripping the sheets of his bed for dear life.


End file.
